


Remember Who You're Talking To

by Quantum_Witch, Vulgarweed



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Bondage, M/M, Obvious Plot Twist Is Obvious, Pseudo-Dubcon, Rough Sex, Sex Demon Home Invasion Is Much Appreciated, identity play, incubus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-22
Updated: 2019-07-22
Packaged: 2020-05-16 18:23:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19323604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quantum_Witch/pseuds/Quantum_Witch, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vulgarweed/pseuds/Vulgarweed
Summary: Written in 2006 for the 30_Lemons community, prompt: "Anonymity" or "Taken By the Faceless Stranger."There is an argument. Aziraphale proves a point - not necessarily just the one he intended. Pseudo-dubcon, bondage, D/s, and an anachronistic 1970s pop song. We apologize to Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett but not to Stephen Stills.Illustrations by Quantum Witch! (NSFW)





	Remember Who You're Talking To

**India, 1901**

 

Insomnia was not a normal part of Crowley’s psychological makeup, but then, neither were the obsessive thoughts that had got him there. How _had_ they got on that topic anyway? Always Aziraphale, that master of beating around the bush before getting to something that smelled like a request for advice. So too many of the local churchgoers were falling asleep during services and it couldn’t all be attributed to the mindnumbingness of the missionaries.

Crowley thought maybe he could do with one of those sermons now, just to see if it helped. It wasn’t the relatively healthy kind of insomnia that led to honest sleeplessness and then possibly to some actual troublemaking. It was the intermittent, deceptive kind, the kind where you think you’re in one state but are really in the other, back and forth all night as though invisible Powers are passing you between them like Maenads with a choice cut of man-leg.

It all led back to the topic: incubi and succubi. Minor demons, but they get a certain respect in Hell – true one-on-one work there; direct old-fashioned craftsmanship. Crowley didn’t, if you must know, partake of this respect (though there was certainly some Envy involved—talk about ‘nice work if you can get it.’)

For Hell’s dirty little secret is that its attitudes about sex came directly from the strictest of the Old Books, handed down straight from Above with lots of inversion but no true subversion.

And Crowley, well . . . he _liked_ sex. No, not precisely true. He _loved_ it. But he loved it in much the same way he loved good food and good wine and good clothes: with no eye towards scoring the soul of the chef or vintner or tailor or anyone who happened to be around to share with. It was just a pleasure of the world. A perk. A hobby. Something to enjoy off the clock and not sully too much with quotas and reports and deadlines.

He’d always thought there was no reason for Hell to take special interest in the professionals in that field either—the practitioners of the Second-Oldest Profession (the oldest, of course, is that of fruit vendor) were as skilled a lot as cooks and tailors on the whole, and what they did no more especially sinful, Lust being certainly a very fine sin but technically not outranking Gluttony or Pride.

And yet.

The breeze rustling the jungle outside was full of threat, sticky with the oncoming rainy season.

***

So, when he was in one of those treacherous short bursts of sleep, Crowley had dreamed of them strutting down the lanes of Dis, twitching their tails.

He’d followed them through windows and seen what they got up to: all those desperate cries for the priest and those insincere prayers and inevitably, arses rising and falling like the moon, which might be where that expression had come from.

And in the middle of these dreams were moments where he grabbed a too-tight collar and cried, “Aziraphale, don’t you see how _mundane_ it all is?”

He just woke up long enough to notice the sheets were sticky before falling asleep again.

He was waiting for something to break; the rainy season at least — maybe that was it now, the eruption at his window, shimmering like a break of blue-white lightning over the gloss of the palm trees, raising all the small hairs all over his body.

Crowley waited for the rain and it never came. But the light remained, and there was a sound like a thumping of air. What he’d taken for unnaturally slow-moving lightning reconstituted itself in a human-like shape.

He started to sit up, and the creature crawled over him, pinning him down. The face was obscured and glowing, far, far too bright for him to look at without hurting his eyes.

(For demons have to be able to see in the dark, but there are definite limits to seeing in the light.)

Things like this didn’t happen to Crowley’s sort—or at least things like what it seemed like, for this couldn’t really be . . . There was a notable lack of hellfire in its aura, a certain lack of _absence,_ and yet, its actions were certainly suggestive.

Whatever it was wasn’t letting him think clearly. Attempts to think his way into it, to suss it out and identify it, were being blocked hither and thither and bouncing against the walls of his skull uselessly. It had got the jump on him, literally, and from the way the sheets over his naked body dissolved, it appeared it meant to do so even more literally.

Not it, he. Oh, definitely _he,_ very much so.

Crowley made a sound he was, in fact, ashamed of.

“I know what you want,” said the odd voice, directly in his head. He hated it when they did that--usually.

Crowley reached for the adrenalin that comes with the unexpected--and found it was there, but fuelled by something quite different from fight-or-flight. The body that pressed itself to his _tingled._ There were hands running over him, leaving lightly burning trails of alien energy, finally grasping his hair and pulling his head back as the creature opened Crowley’s mouth with its presumable tongue and tasted him. Crowley had to close his eyes, and then he just squirmed and licked back, tasting cold glittering stars and snow and myrrh. Really, it was a huge imposition.

_\--Do I know you?_

_\--Not like this._

Whatever he was, he could fog thoughts like breath on a window, and whatever ting of familiarity Crowley thought he felt lured him nowhere.

Sharp teeth tugged at his earlobe, panting heat all the way down the sensitive side of his neck; fingers lifted his chin and lightly squeezed his throat. Crowley made that helpless sound again and reached up to touch and pull. His wrists were grabbed, and a mouth worked around the tender skin of one of them, leaving a moist trail down the inside of his arm.

The creature whispered something, and Crowley turned his head and cracked an eye open enough to see the cloth belt of his discarded dressing gown slithering up the bed towards him. Two rapid heartbeats later, it had tied his wrists to the headboard. Electrical touches trailed down his arms, over his armpits and sides as he squirmed, and then there was a sort of straddling and bending, and that mouth was back over his throat and advancing over his collarbones.

Crowley drew in breath harder.

His captor bit his shoulder.

This could _not_ be happening. He could _not_ be tied to his own bed by some unidentified flying object he couldn’t even look at, by all appearances about to be ravished — and no, his cock did not just fucking _leap_ at the very thought of it — without so much as a how’d-you-do, and he was not having his thoughts messed with. He was _not_ realising that as soon as he dared to think of somewhere and somehow he would love to be touched or nipped or licked, it was done to him. It simply had to be a dream, one of his better lurid ones, except that lately a lot of his best dreams of that nature had co-starred….

He who he’d _better not_ think about now.

He heard a song that hadn’t been written yet: _Well there’s a rose in a fisted glove / and the eagle flies with the dove / and if you can’t be with the one you love, honey . . ._

“Nnn!” was all he said, (notably not “no”) and he tried to open his eyes. The light was painful, but through it over him he glimpsed mighty wings — shimmering in deep blues and reds and copper-gold. They beat once and drove cool air over them both. The last thing he saw was his own abandoned silk cravat creeping up to bind itself over his eyes. He made an even less typesettable sound and sank his head down as his back arched up, and got a reply from the being above him:

“Oh, lovely.”

_. . . fuck the one you’re with._

(It would go something like that anyway.)

“Oh you look so good like this,” whispered the odd voice.

Crowley _felt_ so good, but he wanted to feel even better now, and then hands slid up and down the sides of his chest, waking and buzzing every nerve. Thumbs flicked roughly over his nipples and fingertips pinched hard, nails digging into the little agitated peaks, making Crowley whine and gasp as pulsations of pleasure-pain made him drive his hips up against the body holding him down. Something very like a nicely-sized cock brushed momentarily against his own.

This entity wasn’t going to get much more out of his thoughts but _oh fuck yes please . . ._

“You’re easy,” the voice said.

“Yesssss.” He’d never denied it.

“You’ll let me do anything I want.”

“Yessss.” Crowley entertained the thought of seriously resisting, for a millisecond, just to see what would happen. But this creature had his number: he liked the idea of what was about to happen a lot more than any other possibility. He felt no different from some clueless youth writhing in helpless guilt. With just one little jolt of the advantage of surprise and one little surge of superior firepower, his demon-of-the-worldness was gone, and he was ashamed of that much at least, and he’d never been so aroused in his whole existence.

The hands had left his nipples sore and burning, sliding and gripping down his body. There were fizzing fingertips running over the v-line of his flanks, squeezing the junctures of hip and thigh, exploring him everywhere but where he needed it most.

“And I’ll do a lot to you,” came the whisper. “In my own time.”

Crowley just moaned in delirious frustration as a hand lifted his knee and that mouth bit it, wetly and hard.

“ . . . taste so good, my . . .”

_— my what?_

_— my dear boy. You old serpent._

Crowley’s thought was deflected by a finger of sheer Will like a hand bouncing away a beach ball, but there was another one waiting.

_Somehow, this is Aziraphale’s fault._

_Oh no. Hide the memory. Hide his name._

***

“They don’t even _ask?”_ Aziraphale had said, appalled.

“No, and they don’t buy you dinner first either,” Crowley laughed.

“But that’s like ra-“

“Oh no it isn’t. Not exactly,” said Crowley. “What would be the point of _that?_ So – here’s where the only real art of it comes in – they know what you, I mean general, hypothetical you of course, really want. And it’s always the thing you’re most convinced you’re absolutely not supposed to want. Where there’s smoke, there’s fire, right? And where there’s shame, there’s desire.”

“That’s…perfectly foul.”

“They’d be so thrilled you think so,” Crowley said truthfully. “Anyway, so that’s their loophole. Every sermon on the sins of the flesh lets a few more of ‘em in, somewhere.”

“Hm,” said the angel thoughtfully. “So — it’s only the shameless who never have to worry about them.”

“Precisely. Devious, isn’t it?”

Aziraphale looked down at his wine glass. “I don’t suppose . . . I wonder . . . ”

“What else do you wonder?”

“Well,” Aziraphale said and swilled a little more liquid courage. “The most shameless being I know is . . . you.”

“Thank you, I try,” Crowley preened, toasting the angel’s observational skills.

“So is it only humans they—, I mean, in that case I don’t suppose you—“

Crowley peered at him for a moment, trying to translate that. Then he laughed harshly. “Me? Oh no, they’d never give _me_ a second glance, if that’s what you’re asking. No freebies for the colleagues. Nothing in it for them.”

He’d wanted to bite that back right away. Must he have sounded so resentful?

“I don’t suppose you’ve ever had a shameful desire,” Aziraphale had said. “One that you felt shame for, that is.”

 _I could write a book,_ Crowley’d thought. _And it would be about you._ But he just claimed with all his powers of false pride that no, he hadn’t, forced grin spreading over his face like a rash.

“If one didn’t know better,” Aziraphale had said, “One might start to think there’s a certain innocence about you.”

That was where Crowley started to lose his temper. Another slug of wine did nothing to tamp it back into place.

“And you, never felt a hankering for something you shouldn’t? Never been in danger of going for it anyway?” he’d said. “You know, ignorance isn’t the same thing. And neither is cowardice.”

Aziraphale’s face had gone so red so quickly. “Where the hell did _that_ come from?”

“From Hell, of course. Where all the unpleasant truths go to die. Or not, as the case may be.”

Aziraphale took a deep breath and emptied his glass and stood up. “My shameful desire at the moment is to punch you in the mouth.”

“You insulted me first.”

“I suppose I did.” He’d walked to the door. “But don’t tell me I’m ignorant about shameful desires again. You have _no idea.”_

When he’d gone, Crowley had crushed his glass and taken some satisfaction in watching his palm bleed for a few seconds before healing it up. He was going to need that hand, after all.

***

Desperate for distraction, Crowley whispered, “Fuck me.”

The creature laughed softly. “Demanding, aren’t you?”

A beat of wings, a rush of air, and Crowley felt himself flipped on his belly, wrists crossed and face pressed into the pillow, and he turned his neck so he could breathe because doing so felt so strangely urgent. He fancied he could glimpse bright bluish-gold light in the corner of his eyes through the fabric tied over them. Attentions were paid to his back now, lips and tongue and teeth and hands. There was a full-body press on his heated, sensitised skin, making him cry out and writhe under his ravisher’s weight, for he could do nothing else. He got a sharp slap on his rear and a bite to the nape of his neck and all it made him do was arch his back and moan for more.

_—Oh, you like it this way._

_—Yes._

_—Are you ashamed?_

_—Not really._

_—Pity._

The touch on Crowley’s face, the side of it that was accessible, was slow and gentle now, though the hand that squeezed and clawed his arse wasn’t. Fingertips trailed across his cheek, traced his nose and his swollen lips, and slipped lightly into his mouth. Crowley sucked them, first obediently, and then with subversive gusto. There was a light groan in his ear, a stiffening in the body above him, and he smiled around them, tongue lapping up and down the joints, slipping in between.

_—Oh. OH. You’re good at sucking things._

_—I know._

_—Oh, I could play with you all night._

He _could_ too. Humans fell asleep. Incubi didn’t. Not that that’s really what it was, Crowley thought, but it was sure acting like one. Fuck, what was it? A djinn? A deva? A vampire?

_—It’s not your blood I want._

Crowley beat his face against the pillow; it was unsatisfyingly painless. Newly slickened fingers were opening his arse like a present, running up and down the groove there, and every millimeter of territory felt like a mile—a lush mile of a jungle of nerves, all steam and animal flesh and moist earth; he whimpered and thrust his hips upward impatiently, spreading his thighs under the maddeningly slow explorations. There was a pillow grabbed and thrust under him, lifting his hips for convenience, and the texture of the nubbly silk against his cock was incredible; he thrust against it desperately. A grasping hand held him still while the fingers took a leisurely detour down between his legs and brushed very sensitive skin over his balls, a little drag of a nail making Crowley yelp. They came back up and circled the little hole, teasing.

Crowley knew just exactly how shamelessly he was pushing up against that hand, and he didn’t give a flying fuck (although he gladly would if asked). He was reduced to such a state he was on the verge of an actual prayer of gratitude when the fingertip pushed inside him, and then out again, and then back in, deeper.

Ruthlessly slow, and rhythmic in the way weather patterns are.

At first it was enough, and then it wasn’t. It was close enough to almost enough that Crowley thought he could see ‘enough’ from there, but it wasn’t meant to be enough, it was meant to drive him mad, and it was doing an admirable job. The bedposts sounded like they were in pain from all the creaking and straining of his tied wrists.

_—Oh, this does feel nice. I really could do this all night._

_—Ngk._

It felt as though he did. It felt as though every plea for more Crowley made, whether voiced or not, was punished with another miniature eternity of that finger toying with him; a bending and crooking, a knuckle stretching him, a tap about that spot inside. The moon-shadows had moved.

_—please._

_—Oh, you’ll do anything I want now, won’t you?_

_—yes._

_—Your wings. I want to play with them._

Crowley blinked behind his blindfold and thrashed a bit in horror against the pillow that was creasing his face and the one that was cradling his prick – for a lot of pretending was shattered right there. Any last straggling claim to being mistaken for a guilt-ridden human evaporated, and in a rush of honesty his pinions burst forth from his back. A hand gripped itself in feathers, stroking from base to elbow joint, raking lightly over sensitive membranes and wiry muscles.

There was naked, and there was _naked._

_—Good boy. I’ll reward you for that._

The alleged incubus spread his own legs a little, forcing Crowley’s wider, and the cruel finger withdrew to be replaced by something crueler.

“Fuck. Yes. That.” Crowley cried aloud and was startled by the sound of his own voice. He only got a low groan from the creature, who grabbed his hips and pulled him up on his knees as he thrust in hard, to the headboard’s loud objection.

Crowley’s invader’s deep movements in and out of him were not really so rough in the grand scheme of things, but he had heightened senses now, painfully keen, and he’d been kept loitering around the edge so long he felt everything magnified and accelerated. His fists clenched and his nails dug into his palms; he fluttered his wings stiffly in desperation and felt stinging tugs where hands gripped them for leverage. He felt tickly bits of down sticking to his sweaty face (but not his own; from the pillow he’d bitten through.)

The fact that he loved being penetrated was certainly no surprise to him, and the fact that he loved domination games wasn’t either. But to love to be at the apparently barely-existing mercy of someone or something with powers at least the match of his own, well . . .

The worst thing was how close he was, how every push and pull brought him closer, infinitesimally, and yet he wasn’t getting there. There was nothing touching his cock now but a tormenting breeze, and that was alright, he still might — except that his mind was not fully in his control. One wild thrust backwards of his own, one struggling little twist of his hips, and a hand did clamp around him _there,_ at the base, at the very wrong place, or the very _right_ one, and something in his head held something else _still._

_—You know how this goes. Me first._

Crowley wanted to scream. Instead, he just whined.

_—Don’t worry. Won’t be long. That sweet hot . . . arse . . . of yours . . . oh . . ._

_—yesss. please._

That thrust _was_ hard; the force of that being’s shudderings racked them both, and Crowley did scream, just a little and quickly as the energy released into him burned briefly like his very limited experiences of guilt. And then gathering strength again as it changed with each of the pulsations still going on inside him—pure filthy joyous liberation. He almost wanted to see the light filling the room to really know what it could do to him, but was really rather relieved he couldn’t; he could just imagine it, take it to heart and turn it into wild delight. So, so close.

“Easy now,” came a whisper in his ear, a moist weight that almost felt human against his back. “Wings in now.”

Crowley obeyed, and he was spun round again on his back (fortunately for his poor wrists, the right way). He had been thinking this creature could kill him and he wouldn’t care, when what engulfed his long-suffering cock was unquestionably a hot, slick, capable mouth, and then he thought it was still possible that it might.

His lack of control was downright shameful: the way his body arched and bent, the animalistic sounds that came out of him, the humiliating speed and violence of his waves of sharp climax, tossing him like a leaf in a tornado. The length of it, the battering convulsions, and the sheer amount of what was being drained from him down that devious throat…

He came to eventually. His wrists were being untied and held in tingling, slightly shaking hands. He felt their lacerations being kissed away.

“Keep that on a little longer, now,” came that odd voice, touching the blindfold.

Crowley just nodded. He had left “stupor” behind some minutes ago and was now crossing the threshold into a very warm-blooded version of “torpor.”

He didn’t start to come out of it until he was very aware he was alone. He lifted the sweat-soaked cloth from his eyes, and blinked at the window. It was pouring down rain. When had that started?

***

It really might have been any night he’d wanked himself to exhaustion (or, more pathetically, fallen asleep before he finished). Sweat-sogged sheets and heavy limbs and fuzzy, bleary mind full of slow-moving sense-memories of lust…but he was slightly bruised and sore in ways even he could not have done to himself.

And he wasn’t dreaming that there really was a persistent knocking at the door.

Creakily, he got up, manifested a dressing gown around himself (and he was so half-awake it was wrinkled) and ventured nervously to the door. Nothing godly or ungodly should be here at this hour, and yet he still trusted his instincts enough to start rolling his eyes before he’d finished turning the doorknob.

Aziraphale was drenched, water running in great streams from his hair, his stiff suit damply decimated.

“Why do you let yourself get wet?” Crowley demanded.

“Why are _you_ letting me get wetter?” Aziraphale asked peevishly, pushing his way in.

“I suppose you want something to drink too, don’t you?” said Crowley, nervous for reasons he couldn’t name.

“It would be very kind of you. I did, after all, ride long and hard to be here.”

There was of course no mode of transport behind him he could have said to have _ridden,_ and then a crack of piercing light ripped the fog in Crowley’s brain, and the demon’s jaw dropped (it could drop farther than most people’s), and his knees threatened for just a second to abandon ship. _Rice whisky. Now._

Demons aren’t bound by etiquette, and Crowley took a generous swig first. Medicinal. His hands wouldn’t stop shaking even then, but he turned to confront the angel anyway. All that came out was “ . . . you! . . . ”

Aziraphale looked at the bottle and then at the floor when he nodded.

Crowley handed off the bottle and grabbed Aziraphale by the front of his wet shirt, which dried instantly at his touch. “I wasn’t supposed to know, was I?”

“Well . . . no,” said Aziraphale. “But . . . I don’t really think you’re _stupid,_ I knew you’d . . . sooner or later . . . ”

“And then?”

“And then”—and here Crowley realised Aziraphale was trembling. “I suppose you’d either try to discorporate me, or . . . ”

“Or?” said Crowley, starting to smile.

“Or maybe . . . this is the best-case scenario, mind . . . you’d admit you enjoyed it. And I’d admit I did too. And that I should be . . . ashamed of it, I suppose, but you know, I’m really not. And I think that was my point.”

“You did this to _prove a point?”_

“Well, yes. Sort of. And to . . . find something out, I think.”

Crowley really had nothing left he could do but laugh. Sometimes he thought Aziraphale was the most stolid, boring creature that a stolid, boring God could ever have envisioned, and then there were moments when he thought the angel was really quite thrillingly insane. “I suppose I did as good as tell you how to do it, didn’t I?”

“I like to think I had some original ideas.”

“Not that. I mean the more . . . occult methodology.”

“Well, yes, and . . . I must say, you were rather an open book there . . . ”

“Yes, and you read me in Braille.”

Aziraphale laughed. “I think there were several languages involved.”

“What’s the one where you read it with your cock?”

“Crowley!”

“I really, really don’t believe you,” the demon exclaimed, brushing a little whisky dribble from Aziraphale’s lips with a fingertip. _“Now_ you blush?” Aziraphale looked away. Crowley turned his face around. “Why did you really come here now? You wanted to be recognised. You wanted me to know.”

“I’m tired,” Aziraphale said petulantly. “I wanted a drink. And I could use a good lie-down as well.”

Crowley smirked. “Yes. I’ll just bet you could.”

“You have energy?”

“Not now, no, but I will. And what you can do, I can do. What would be the good of keeping it a secret, that’s why you’re here. You want payback.”

“Er . . . ” Aziraphale started to say. He really ought to deny that. He ought to apologise too. But while Crowley waited expectantly, what came out was, “I really hadn’t meant to take it so far. If you hadn’t surprised me by wanting it so much . . . I didn’t mean to poke around in your…fantasies.”

“It was hardly a fantasy by then,” Crowley reminded him dryly, about to burst out laughing at what Aziraphale was trying to deflect and failing. “Frankly, it seemed to me you’d given what you were doing a lot of thought. Dead giveaway that the idea of tying me up and fucking me senseless had occurred to you before.”

Crowley heard the ringing pizzicato sound of a nerve being struck. But Aziraphale’s flush wasn’t shame exactly. Not anymore.

“I really was just trying to teach you a lesson. About assuming.”

Crowley laughed. “It worked, O Sower of the Parables.”

Aziraphale let himself be led back to the bed where he’d just been. Rather enticing was Crowley’s firm grip on his arm. For his part, it had never been the _nature_ of his desire that shamed him. It was the _intensity._


End file.
